


Case File: Haunted Costumes

by JJ (novascotia7777)



Series: Case Files [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Case File, Gen, Supernatural S11e07 Plush, Tony/Pepper if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5914177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novascotia7777/pseuds/JJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was *supposed* to be my day off. But instead, Barton calls, says we have a case. Weird shit in Larsen County, Wisconsin. People getting killed by idiots in costumes (why we get called, haven't a clue). But then we run into the Winchesters. The *Winchesters*.<br/>Coulson is gonna be *so* jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Case File: Haunted Costumes

* * *

**Case File: Haunted Costumes**

**Case Agent(s): Agent Clint Barton (C.O.) (Codename: Hawkeye), Agent JJ Solo (X.O.) (Codename: Skywalker)**

**Active: 11/18/2015**

**Closed: 11/20/2015**

**Location(s): Larsen County, WI, USA**

**Written by: Agent JJ Solo**

**Edited by: Agent Clint Barton**

* **Accessed on: 11/24/2015**

* * *

**Note:** I had to be woken up for this shit  _on my day off_ , so this is in my P.O.V. That, and Barton didn't want to type up the report. Lazy ass. And you can tell him I said that, too.

~~For all of you agents that don't like the details I have added or accidentally left out: fuck off and write your own goddamn case report.~~

* * *

_Bangarang! (Bass!)_ the StarkPhone rang, vibrating on the wooden night stand. A tan hand marred with an ugly white scar on the palm reached out to answer the infernal and loud device. While 'Bangarang' by Skrillex's chorus made a perfect ringtone (perfectly obnoxious, making the owner want to pick it up simply to make it stop), it was a bitch to wake up to. _Especially_ in the middle of a day off.

"What?" I grumbled. My voice was such that it didn't sound strictly like a boy's, nor like a girl's, but had been equally mistaken as either or. Either way, I didn't particularly care. I was both, and I was neither.

_"We got a mission. Strange activity in Larsen County, Wisconsin. I'll be there in ten. Be ready."_

_Click!_

"Bastard," I muttered. "Jess!" I shouted, throwing the covers off. Bare feet hit the hardwood floor and pattered over to the main room. "Barton called, I gotta go!"

The main room consisted of a dark wood entertainment center in the corner, a ragged red sofa leaned up against the wall, a gas fireplace on the opposite wall, and a desk and chairs in front of the window. The entertainment center was closed up, but on the inside was a tv and an Xbox One. On the side of the desk closest to the wall was a black office chair, and on the opposite side were two black armchairs for clients. The brown paint was peeling in a couple places, revealing the drywall underneath.

"Stay safe, see you in a couple days," Jessica responded, click-clacking away on the black plastic keys on her Acer laptop. The P.I. had her own cases to do, as demonstrated by her black hair tied back in an unforgiving ponytail and the near-empty bottle of whiskey on the surface of her mahogany desk.

It wasn't that Jessica Jones didn't care, it was that neither of us were exactly the warm and fuzzy type. I didn't like to be touched, except for a select number of people, and I preferred to be the one initiating the physical contact.

Pulling on a pair of black-wash denim jeans and a plain black t-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the front left corner back in my bedroom, I zipped up my black knee-high laced combat boots with zippers on the inner sides for easy access. A quick trip to the bathroom to piss and brush my teeth was in order, along with fixing my short dark blue (nearly black) hair with a lavender stripe hidden under blue on the right side of my head. Giving up, I pulled on a black beanie, pressing my long fringe bangs so they ghosted over my dark green framed eyeglasses. Two cubic zirconia studs were in each ear lobe, as well as a black barbell through my right eyebrow and a black stud in my left nostril.

A black hoodie under a blue denim jacket was pulled on, and a black backpack hoisted on my shoulder. Taking a detour through the kitchen, I grabbed and bit into a red delicious apple.

"See you in a few days, Jess," I announced between bites.

"Stay safe, JJ," she said without looking up from her screen.

I knew she cared.

I strode out of the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind me (despite the hole where the glass bearing 'Alias Investigations' was covered by cardboard, an easy bypass to break in), and to the elevator where I irately jabbed the 'down' button rapidly with my pointer finger until the metal doors opened.

_Ring-ring-ring!_ my phone chimed like one of the old landlines as seen in old black-and-white movies as I hit the button for the ground floor.

**12:28 CB- Out front. I got you a caramel macchiato and three of those mini scones you like so much.**

**12:29 JJ- Extra caramel?**

**12:30 CB- And made warm** **with an extra shot. And with the sweeter espresso or whatever.**

The doors opened, and I strode confidently out of the building to the black SUV waiting for me out front. I tossed my backpack in the back seat and climbed shotgun.

"Good mornin', sunshine," Clint Barton greeted, handing over the white paper cup and a paper bag, both bearing the Starbucks mermaid.

I took three sips of the coffee before I even _thought_ about answering.

"Morning," I said huskily when Clint was back on the road. Clearing the lump out of my throat, I asked, "Where to?"

"LaGuardia airport. One of the quinjets will be waiting for us," Clint answered, chowing down on his own breakfast sandwich with one hand on the wheel.

"Great," I responded sarcastically.

This was supposed to be my day off.

* * *

"Landin' in five!" Barton announced from the cockpit. "Put the Netflix away and strap up. I need your help up here."

"Am I landing it or just lookin' at the controls?" I asked, pulling my earbuds out of the jack and stuffing those and my rose gold StarkPhone in my back pocket.

Alternating between handles on the ceiling, I made my way to the cockpit and plopped down in the co-pilot's seat.

"Not sure yet. You think you can land?"

"With a bit of assistance; I just need a spotter."

"You got it. Make your approach slowly. Drop down to about three thousand feet and slow down," he advised.

"Got it," I acknowledged, doing as I was told. "Where we landin'?"

"Lucky for us, Larsen County has an airport. A small one, but big enough to drop this bird," Clint smacked the dash three times. "Get a headset on and tell Tower Control we're comin'."

I did exactly what he said while keeping one hand on the joystick.

"Tower Control, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. 2-1-6, requesting permission to land, over."

_"S.H.I.E.L.D. 2-1-6, permission to land is granted. Proceed to the south runway and make your approach, over,"_ Tower Control responded.

"Copy that."

"Okay, now the south runway is to the left, so you gotta line up with that. It's the one with the orange, see?"

"Yeah, I got it," I answered Barton.

With a little help, the plane went down safely, and it seemed like all too soon I was ditching the bulky airplane headset and pulling my bag on my shoulders. Barton grabbed his own backpack and black case and I followed him off the plane.

"You got everything?"

"Yessir," I responded. No longer were we two friends, now it was S.O. and X.O. He had a higher rank than me, and we both knew that. We both respected that. Besides that, Barton was the adult, and I was the sixteen-year-old.

I trusted Barton with my life, and Barton trusted me with his.

It was a bit of a ride to the latest crime scene in the black S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV that was left for us to use, but wasn't too long thanks to Stark allowing me access to his satellites, thus getting me my unlimited mobile data plan. I pulled out a Stark Laptop (purchased by Trish Walker, who loved to spoil me; I didn't have the heart to tell her I knew the manufacturer), and proceeded to hack the Larsen County PD database to get what we couldn't get from the file S.H.I.E.L.D. made for us.

"There ain't much in the PD database, just that a 'killer bunny' broke a beer bottle over one man, uh, Stan Hinkle's head and stabbed him in the neck with the shards," I relayed.

"Ouch," Clint said sympathetically.

"Wife, Fran Hinkle, came up upon the grisly scene, bunny standin' over the body, but fled when she showed up. Put up a hell of a fight when the cops showed up, took a whole team to cuff the bastard. He was shot trying to assault two officers and escape. Mask fell off TOD, revealed a kid named Mike Hooks, nineteen. Couldn't get it off before then."

"Got a picture?"

"Yeah."

I transferred it to my phone and showed Clint the death shot.

"Who was the next vic?" he asked.

"A coach at the local high school named Phil Evans. Alive but in a coma. Attacked by a jester who's in custody, about five minutes ago. A court jester, their mascot at the school. Bashed his head in with a twelve pound drop weight. That's all there is right now. Checking police radio now. Oh, looks like the FBI is already on scene. Two agents, uh, Elliot and Savage. Security cam got them walkin' into the precinct."

"Anyone we know?"

"Fuck," I swore once the picture loaded. "Take a look."

Barton laughed. "This is gonna be fun, kiddo!"

"Yeah," I said blandly. "Fun."

(I didn't think this would be fun. At all.)

I stuffed my laptop back in my bag as Barton pulled into the lot of the high school, official cars all over the place.

"Got your gun?" he checked.

"Yessir," I responded in the positive, "and my badge."

"Let's go, then."

We bypassed the yellow police tape with a flash of our badges and headed to the gym, where we saw two guys in suits talking to the kid. We waited until they were done before making their approach.

"Hi, Agents Barton and Solo, S.H.I.E.L.D.," Barton introduced, and we flashed our badges.

"Elliot and Savage, FBI," Savage introduced a bit suspiciously.

"Uh, can I ask what you're doing here? We can handle it," Elliot said politely.

"We're not saying you can't, but, uh, S.H.I.E.L.D. trumps FBI," I smiled cockily.

"Solo," Barton cautioned, and I wiped the look off my face instantly. "Look, this case is weird. The first guy, Mike Hooks-- mask didn't come off until he was killed. I don't want the same thing to happen to the jester."

"This ain't the first weird case we've seen, sirs," I said respectfully, clasping my hands behind my back.

"Out here," Elliot prompted, and he and Savage walked out of the weights room.

"What if we were to say that we thought it was either a cursed object or ghost possession?" Savage asked as soon as we were out of earshot, a fair ways away from the police tape and all the commotion outside.

"Well, god, I've never dealt with either of _those_ before," I said, adopting a mockingly thoughtful expression. "Have _you_ , Agent Barton?"

"There's a first time for everything, Agent Solo," Barton replied.

"Alright, enough with the smartassery, I'm serious," Savage snapped.

"I know," I reassured, morphing the look into one of professionalism. "My apologies, sir. I should stop screwing around while I'm on a case." I know better.

"How old are you, Agent Solo?" Elliot asked curiously. I was about five-foot-four, had a youthful face. Everyone's best guess? Fifteen or sixteen. My Asian complexion didn't help my case, either. Definitely didn't look like a mature adult agent.

I looked at Barton, who nodded his approval. We didn't like to step on other agencies' toes unless we absolutely had to; S.H.I.E.L.D. had no idea what was going on here. We needed all the help we could get, and to accomplish that, we needed trust.

"Sixteen, sir, seventeen in July," I answered honestly.

"He's qualified to do his job," Barton vouched.

Elliot and Savage shared a long look but seemed to come to a solution.

"Follow us back to the precinct," Savage decided. "The jester is waiting in a jail cell. We're gonna try to get the costume off him, get 'im back to normal."

"You lead, we follow," Barton agreed, then gently pulled me to our SUV.

"This is weird," I commented once in the car.

"Trust me, I totally agree," Barton admitted.

It was a short ride to the police station as we followed the black '67 Chevrolet Impala that Clint vowed to me that he would get to ride in.

* * *

The FBI agents led us to the jail cell where the jester was being kept, and we met a blonde police officer there.

"Who're these two?" she asked, albeit a bit suspiciously.

"Barton and Solo, S.H.I.E.L.D.," Savage introduced.

"Officer Donna Hanscum. Wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers involved in the Battle of New York in 2012? Were you two there?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered honestly as Savage pulled some sort of device from his pocket. "What's that?"

"Homemade EMF reader. EMF stands for--"

"Electromagnetic frequency," I recited along with him. "I know my shit. Sir."

"Anyway, since it's lighting up an' screamin' like that, that means it's not a cursed object. It's ghost possession," Savage confirmed.

"Oh, for jeez. _Ghosts_ can possess people?" Officer Hanscum asked bewilderedly.

"Yeah. So, uh, Ghosts 101-- somebody's spirit can attach itself to an object or a bunch of objects left behind. In this case, masks," Elliot explained.

"Right, so, whoever possesses the object--"

"Gets possessed," Elliot finished for Savage.

"Well, how do you _un_ possess someone?" Barton asked.

"Everything has a weakness, even ghosts," Elliot said.

"They hate iron and salt. So, all we gotta do is spook the spook with a little salt and, uh, maybe we could pry it off," Savage revealed.

"So, what, we just sprinkle some salt on it like it was a tray of French fries?" I asked in disbelief.

"Eh, somethin' like that," Savage said, pulling out a sawed-off shotgun from a duffel bag.

"You said no one else was dying," Hanscum accused.

"Salt pellets," he reassured her. "Plug your ears, boys and girls." He took aim and fired, and if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. The ghost was visible, like a puff of smoke, as it fled the kid, who was launched backwards from the blast.

The girl in the jail cell (sans mask), rolled over to look at us.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"C'mon, sweetie, let's get you outta there," Hanscum cooed, unlocking the cell and slapping some cuffs on her.

"What's going on? Why am I under arrest?" she asked again.

"Is she gonna get in trouble? I mean, she didn't _really_ do it, did she?" I asked Barton under my breath as the two FBI agents led us out, down the hall and into the empty squad room.

"I dunno, Jayj," Clint responded honestly.

"Technically, no one saw her face; all they saw was the mask," Elliot agreed.

"He was a drifter, overpowered Donna, escaped," Savage thought up the cover story as Hanscum walked towards the four.

"Well, _there's_ some female empowerment for ya," Hanscum remarked sarcastically.

"Do you want her to go to jail?" Barton retorted.

"No," she said instantly.

"Okay then," he replied simply, and then motioned for me to walk over to the girl, who was sitting in a chair by Hanscum's desk.

"Hi, I'm JJ," I greeted. "What's your name?"

"Michelle," she gave. "Am I in trouble?"

"Nah. Just gotta ask you a coupla questions and then you can high-tail it outta here," I reassured, taking a seat next to her in Hanscum's swivel chair. "You remember attacking the coach?"

"No, I swear. I went to pick up the new mascot costume, went to try it on, and the next thing I know... I'm in jail," she scoffed in disbelief.

"You send the kid to interview the kid?" Savage asked Barton.

"Kids connect with kids. They're not gonna spill their guts to a couple guys in suits," he explained his call. "'Sides, Solo's got a way of callin' bullshit."

"Did'ya even know the guy?" I continued.

"He was my P.E. coach last semester. I mean, he was kind of a hardass. Was tough on everyone. Picked on the slow kids." Then, Michelle added rapidly, "That doesn't mean that I wanted him dead."

"Trust me, dude, I got you," I understood. "Where'd you even get the costume? Thrift store, Goodwill?"

"No, uh, someone donated it to the school, I think."

"You know who?"

"No, sorry," she apologized. "You can check the school computers, though. They gotta keep a record of all that stuff."

"Thanks, Michelle. You're free to go," I released her.

"You're a cop?" Michelle asked in disbelief, standing.

"A fed," I corrected, standing as well. "S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Dude, that's so cool."

And with that, Michelle left the station.

"What'd ya got?" Savage questioned when I passed them and went to my bag sitting on the floor.

"Costume was donated to the school," I summarized. "Coach was a hardass and a bit of a dick."

"Who donated the costume?" Elliot asked.

"Dunno. School keeps records of that shit, though. Gimme five minutes," I promised, pulling out my laptop and waking it up. "'Sides, it's too late to interview people tonight, anyhow."

* * *

"Go look up 'idiot' in the dictionary, you'll find your picture," I dissed Barton laughingly as I pulled on a S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical t-shirt. A prototype-- built-in bulletproof vest and arm coverage, but still complete mobility. Thanks, Fitz-Simmons! Gun in my denim waistband and knife on my hip and I'm good to go.

"Oh, I'm an idiot for saying that the Nintendo DSi is better than the 3DS?" Clint retorted, towel-drying his wet hair as he stepped out of the bathroom.

"Yes!" I insisted, side-stepping him to go comb my hair. "The DSi is so outdated they don't even make games for it anymore! And the graphics suck ass!"

"You wanna know what _else_ sucks ass?"

"Your face!" I shouted from the bathroom.

" _Your_ face!" Barton fired back. "You ready to go? We're meeting the FBI at the diner down the street."

"Almost," I said between a toothbrush. "Get dressed, no one wants to see you in just your underwear!"

"Ha-ha," he laughed dryly as he pulled some jeans on. I walked out of the bathroom, completely ready, and took my phone off the charger.

Tony Stark was a bit of an egotistical asshole, but he made good tech. And he was nice enough (read: Pepper threatened him) to make me a rose gold model the same shade of color as Apple's iPhone 6s.

"Hurry up slowpoke," I teased as I pulled on my hoodie and jacket.

"I was ready before you," Clint protested.

"Liar," I fired back as he opened the door to our motel room. It was about five minutes by car to the diner the FBI agents had picked last night.

Okay, let me get something straight.

We know they _aren't_ really FBI. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s got files on everyone, and that includes Dean (Savage) and Sam (Elliot) Winchester. It was Barton's idea to play along, and, since he's my S.O., I followed his lead.

I have no shame in admitting that I played Lego Star Wars on my phone on the ride to the diner and as we grabbed a table and waited for the feds.

They walked in shortly after we arrived.

"Mornin'," Barton greeted as I died on the Mos Espa pod race level. Again.

"Fuck," I swore under my breath, restarting.

"Jay," Barton laughingly reprimanded.

"Fine, _fine_ , I'll put it away," I grumbled. Stupid game.

"Have you guys ordered yet?" Elliot (Sam) asked.

"Nothing except the nectar of the gods," I answered. "Coffee," I explained at their confused looks. "Nice to see you again, sirs."

"Did you find out who donated the costumes?" Savage (Dean) jumped in without any preamble. I couldn't really blame him. People were dying.

"Yep!" I answered, pulling up the file on my StarkPhone. "Rita Johnson. 42, single mother. Son, Max, twelve. Her brother's name was Chester Johnson, but looks like he committed suicide a few months ago. Sad. Jumped off a bridge."

"Who owned the costumes?" Elliot asked.

"Chester. He was a kids party entertainer."

"I got no respect for those guys," Clint quipped.

I just gave him a look. "Really?" I asked with attitude.

"Dude, they dress up like yahoos and hang out with little kids all day," he explained himself defensively. "Pedos."

"I _know_ pedos, and kids party performers aren't pedos. Well, most of 'em aren't," I amended just as the waitress came around.

Awkward. But, the look on her face was funny.

All three men ordered something with meat in it (although Elliot ordered something more healthy), and I got strawberry pancakes.

"If you'll excuse me," Clint said as his phone rang. He eased out of the booth and walked towards the door.

"So, uh," Savage gestured to my hair. "That regulation in S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Not exactly, but, uh, I'm a rule breaker." I smiled. It was true: unnatural hair colors and facial piercings weren't allowed, too noticeable. Same with tattoos, but that didn't stop the small black semicolon behind my ear. "Guessing your hair ain't regulation, either," I gestured to Elliot's hair.

Savage laughed, elbowing Elliot in the ribs. "Told ya you needed a haircut, Sammy," he laughed.

"Ha-ha-ha, shut up," Elliot retorted sarcastically.

* * *

It was decided that the feds would make sure Chester was the ghost (and unfortunately he was cremated, which meant no bones to burn), while the cops gathered up all the costumes at the high school. Clint and I were to interview Stan Hinkle's widow.

"Phil and Stan were college roommates. Knew each other since they were 18. They were like brothers," she explained.

"Did, uh, your husband or the coach ever know a guy by the name of Chester Johnson? He was a children's party performer," I elaborated, and she instantly got a disgusted look on her face.

"Yeah. They knew him. Ugh, I can't even say his name. He makes me _sick_! I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I have _nothing_ nice to say about that man."

"Ma'am, what did he do?" Clint prompted.

"He," she sighed, gathering herself. "He touched my kids. Mine, and Phil's. We-we never went to the police because our kids were embarrassed, not to mention it would have ruined their social lives. So, uh, Stan and Phil went to his house to confront him about it, but he wasn't there. Rita was."

"And what did Rita say?" I asked.

"She called them liars, told them to get lost or she'd call the police. All I know is that he jumped off the bridge a few days later. Guess he finally realized what a sick man he was. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pick my kid up from school."

"Thank you for talking with us, ma'am," Clint said as we were escorted out of her home.

"Well, _that_ was helpful," I quipped when we were back in the car.

"I called it, by the way," he said as he started the car.

"Yep, the kids party performer was a pedophile. What d'ya want _this_ time?"

"I dunno," he laughed. "After this case is over, maybe..." he trailed off in thought. "Oh! I got it! I want some of those red velvet stuffed cookies you made that one time. Those were awesome."

"Ugh," I groaned, knowing how fast those would be gone. I'd have to make them somewhere other than Stark Tower. Maybe Jessica's? Or Trish's? No, they would both steal taste tests. Ooh, Coulson's plane has a kitchen... "How many do you want?"

"A couple _dozen_ , at least."

Wonderful. Clint laughed at the groan I let out at that statement.

I hated when he was right.

"We gonna meet up with the Winchesters and the LEOs?" I asked.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "This case is fuckin' weird. Who knew ghosts were real?"

"With the shit we deal with?" I stated rhetorically. "T'was bound to happen _sooner_ or later."

* * *

"Alright, so, _you're_ scared of _clowns_?" I laughed. In Dean's car. Clint loved it, spent five solid minutes complimenting the car. Meh, he was weird.

"It was a killer!" Sam argued.

"Big bad hunter," I laughed, "hunts ghosts an' shit, and is scared of a _clown_!"

"What're you laughing at, _aichmophobe_ ," Barton dissed me, and I instantly stopped laughing and glared at him.

"I am not afraid of needles, I just... hate them. Immensely. Shut up."

I also hated sedatives. Leave me alone.

"You're afraid of a little _pinprick_?" Dean busted up laughing.

" _You're_ afraid of _planes_ ," Sam defended me by casting shade on his brother.

"Ooh, wrecked," I laughed.

"Case now, screwing around later," Dean retorted.

"Yes-sir-bossman-sir!" I mock-saluted, and received a kick in the leg courtesy of one Clint Barton for my smartassery.

"So, suicide led to a vengeful spirit, super common," Sam stated.

"But was it suicide?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" Clint asked.

"I think we need to go talk to Chester's sister again," I said. "I don't think it was a suicide."

"What makes you think that, kid?" Dean asked.

"Chester touched little kids inappropriately. So, Stan and Phil go to Chester and Rita's house, right? And they go to teach him a lesson, but he wasn't there. Rita was. Rita tells them to get lost. But, Rita has a son. A son the same age as the kids Chester touched. There is _no_ way that Rita didn't know," I concluded.

"So, you're saying, that, Rita knew her brother was a skeeze," Sam connected the dots.

"I'm saying we need to go talk to her," I repeated. "I'm saying that maybe Rita didn't tell them off when they showed up. Hell, if I had a kid?"

"If I had a kid, and that happened to 'im, I wouldn't be protecting the asshole that did it, I'd fucking kill him," Clint said firmly, looking straight at me. I grasped his hand and squeezed before letting him go.

He and some other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents _did_ fucking kill them. But, that's a story for another time.

All I remember is that the case was over with soon after that. Phil and Stan accidentally killed Chester by hanging him over a bridge by the ankles, and losing their grip. (I'm not saying Chester deserved it, but...) The deer head costume got the kid, almost killed Rita, but then the Winchesters salted and burned it while the pseudo-corporeal ghost tried to kill us all.

All in all, very scary. Very cool.

And we saved the mom and kid.

We did something right.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, while I'm stuck here, might as well use alyssianagrace's account to let you guys know how this *really* goes. Think of it as what your tv shows and movies get wrong. Might as well educate you ignorants while I piece my memories back. Win-win.  
> ~JJ  
> P.S. If any of you know how I can jump back to my universe, let me know. Seriously. No joke. Being stuck in the body of a depressed hormonal 16 year old who has periods is not fun. *shudders*


End file.
